


‘tis but a Flesh Wound!

by Himbocracy



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Bonding over Stupid Deaths, Discussions of Death and Discorporation, Fluff, Gallows humour, Implied Sexual Content, Intimacy, M/M, Morning Cuddles, Scars and Stories to go with them, Slight Canon Divergence, Snow Day, South Downs Cottage (Good Omens), book fic, coziness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-23
Updated: 2019-11-23
Packaged: 2021-02-26 01:26:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,470
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21525190
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Himbocracy/pseuds/Himbocracy
Summary: In which there is cuddling and bonding over past discorporation.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley
Comments: 4
Kudos: 41





	‘tis but a Flesh Wound!

**Author's Note:**

> Obviously I‘m going to be talking about violent discorporation, in a lighthearted way. I wrote this drunk and I’m editing hungover, but I did finish it in a single evening of writing frenzy so father forgive me for this tooth-rotting fluff. 
> 
> For all intents and purposes, the bit where Aziraphale has never got discorporated before the Shadwellian shenanigans doesn’t apply here.
> 
> There’s only a passing mention of sexytime but I like to play everything safe so it’s M

The bedsheets at the cottage always felt freshly washed. Even if they’d been negligent with the laundrymaking, the red blanket on the queen size bed smelled like sticking your head in a box of particularly lovely washing powder. 

Outside it had snowed overnight, which didn‘t happen as often as it used to; so that one would be tempted to assume the Antichrist just wanted his Inquisition to have snowballs for torture. This was all well and good if you were the sort of person who hadn’t grown out of snowball fights, which Aziraphale and Crowley had definitely got enough of during the little ice age. It was alright taking walks in it sometimes, but for the most part Crowley disliked snow and Aziraphale’s appreciation was of the purely aesthetic sort. There was just _something_ about sitting by the fire with cocoa and a book that snow seemed to amplify; and it was a nice touch to pretend you were a character from War and Peace for a second. 

That was the Outside Situation though. Inside, under a blanket, there were an angel and a demon. They weren’t doing or wearing anything in particular, and it was a rather effective way to keep all the warmth to them like selfish people do.

Crowley was resting his head on Aziraphale’s chest, and drawing lines on him with his finger, up and down from side to hip and back. The angel had lovely, sunkissed soft skin even in the mid of December, and his chest was the faintest bit flushed. It was an excellent look; and it made Crowley’s heart do a funny thing to see him yawning and still all too sleepy beside him, thick curls askew and anarchical.[1]

[1] Crowley thought Aziraphale had got rather too good at sleeping since he’d taught him how to do it after Armageddon’t.

He was almost considering becoming a morning person for this, Crowley thought, and hummed softly as Aziraphale’s hand stroked his back in an indulgent and appreciative way.

Crowley let his eyes wander and seemed to take a sudden interest in a spot just under Aziraphale’s right nipple, where he had a rather big scar. Crowley knew him and his corporation in every sense of the word, and he probably could’ve drawn a tasteful nude of the angel from memory with not so much as a freckle, stretch mark, or hair out of place. He’d made a scrupulously accurate map and enjoyed every second. When it came to scars, he knew better than to ask about the ones on his back, under his single pair of scruffy off-white wings. He knew Aziraphale didn’t like to get reminded of his demotion, so he didn’t talk about it. But he’d never asked about the stories behind the others.

“You never did tell me where that came from,” Crowley said in a morning voice like aquarium gravel, and traced the scar idly. With sleight, careful in case it weren’t healed already.

“Mmh? I think it was 812...or 905?” Aziraphale thought aloud, “Anyways, big bearded bloke with an axe.” 

“A viking?” 

“I think his name was Knut or something, but to be honest I was already a bit too far gone to remember what it was. _Seemed_ like he was having a good time going berserk.”

“Monastery raid?”

“I was a bit drowsy and I didn’t have any weapons,” Aziraphale said, more defensively than he wanted to. “You’re just doodling in a manuscript and next thing you know there’s vikings all over the place and you’re bleeding out over your marginalia.”

“How did you not _notice_ that?”

“I was just kind of...in the zone, as you say. I’d just got the other eye right, and I could feel the creative juices flowing through me when—”

He could feel Crowley’s brows furrow lightly against his chest. “Please don’t call it that, angel.”

“Anyways, if we’re talking scars—that one,” Aziraphale slid his hand down Crowley’s neck, from where he’d been resting it in his dark hair to a visibly lighter-coloured patch of skin. It went all around his neck, so it wasn’t all too difficult to guess what killed Crowley that time. “Bone to pick with Robespierre?”

“Nope, not the Terror,” he smiled, “Henry VIII.” 

“I’m sure there’s an interesting story there.” 

“One of the horniest and least sympathetic monarchs I’ve ever known.”

Aziraphale chuckled. “But I do feel bad for the wives...” 

“Mmhm,” affirmed Crowley, and pressed his head into the space between Aziraphale’s jaw and shoulder, making a satisfied little noise.

And well, bodies had a neat habit of becoming storybooks of one’s struggles and defeats, and one’s violent and sometimes rather amusing deaths. Crowley had several noteworthy and interesting scars, and they made him look more combat-hardened than he actually was with his skinny arms and ridiculous cobra half-sleeve. Truth is that most of the stories were rather stupid indeed.

“And this one?,” Aziraphale asked. It was suspiciously straight down Crowley’s breastbone and ended in an uncharacteristic blotch.

“That’s a dumb one,” he replied bashfully.

“Well now you have to tell me, dear.” 

“Fifteenth century Florence. Passed out on a piazza shitfaced, and well— it was before I learned how to breathe in my sleep.”

“I like where this is going.”

“Let’s just say the guy who took me home got a bit startled when I woke up on his dissecting table with a blade in my chest.”

“I’m guessing he wasn’t too fond of the yellow eyes either?” asked Aziraphale, and kissed his forehead. He did like the eyes, and all of Crowley’s not quite so human features. [2]

[2] Especially the forked tongue, for particular reasons that don’t require further elaboration...

Reflecting on why he found his most demonic traits so attractive was opening a can of worms that he preferred to keep tucked away and sealed with duct tape, thank you very much.

“Dissecting live people was even more illegal than corpses, I imagine. So...uh—as it were—”

“He stabbed you?”

“He was panicking, and I was too inebriated to feel much. I’m lucky he didn’t call an exorcist.”

“That would’ve been very unfortunate for you.”

Crowley had propped himself up on one elbow now, and was looking down at Aziraphale fondly. It was the easiest thing in the world to cuddle up against him, perhaps his reptilian instincts felt naturally drawn to plump and warm things in the cold weather. Either way, he would’ve happily hibernated in his arms.

He softly kissed his stomach instead, and found another souvenir, two centimetres over Aziraphale’s belly button. “I think I remember that one—”

It had been a cold day as well. A little aside, and they’d both agreed that this was the easiest solution, and that they definitely didn’t want to accompany the megalomanic frenchman to the end of the world, also known as rural eastern Europe. So it was two bottles of wine beforehand and then thirty paces in opposite directions, because they had to at least make it _look_ like it wasn’t done on purpose.

“You shot me yourself, tosser.” He made an effort to appear miffed at first, but then Aziraphale _chuckled_.

“1805, was it? The Napoleon Assignment.”

“And we both wanted an excuse to get out of there as quickly as possible,” Crowley said and flaunted his own.

Aziraphale put a finger on it. “Somehow I feel like matching gunshot wounds aren’t the epitome of _romanticism_.”

“Depends on whether you capitalize the r, I suppose. It _was_ certainly the most pleasant duel I’ve ever been in,” admitted Crowley through a slight blush as Aziraphale brushed away a stray strand of hair from his face. 

“Have you been in very many?”

He counted in his head. “Six duels— and three flytings. Though I just vanished the opponent half the time.”

“That’s cheating.”

“Who cares, angel.” He kissed him on the mouth, and Aziraphale kissed back, sloppily, pulling him close under the blanket, and well— they were most definitely waking up now.

“We could do breakfast,” Crowley huffed against the angel’s neck between kisses. “Mmh— poached eggs and toast and a hot cuppa—”

“It’s not like we have to be anywhere, my dear...” said Aziraphale, sliding his hands over Crowley’s back.

“What are you suggesting?” Crowley knew perfectly well what he was suggesting, and was more than happy to cooperate, especially when they were already im a compromising position to begin with. He nodded quickly and made a bit of an inappropriate noise. 

Aziraphale rolled them both around and kissed him once more. “Make that Brunch instead?”

“Perfect.”

Somewhere, souls were getting tarnished by the dozen in the overflowing pre-festivity shopping centres, or the Cain instinct obliged boys to throw snowballs in their shivering brother’s faces. In the cottage, no one was even close to getting chilly.

**Author's Note:**

> Yeah Aziraphale definitely has monsterfucker tendencies. I’m sorry.


End file.
